You Make Your Own Heaven And Hell Right Here On Earth
by legendofthefox
Summary: Crowley is like anyone in that he sometimes needs a little "me" time. Basically, Crowley takes a bubble bath while listening to motown and musing over his past and present situation. Takes place before the Apocalypse is over. Warnings: Nudity(takes a bath), Alcohol, very brief language, embarrassed Bobby. You could squeeze some Crobby out of it if you want


Crowley was like anyone else in that he sometimes needed a little "me" time. Heaven and Hell was in such a mess currently, what with Lucifer having risen and all, and it really stressed him out. He had a plan, of course, and he knew he would come out on top. He always did. He managed to climb his way up the ladder down under and secure his title of King of the Cross Roads. He had plans for another promotion once all the pieces fell to the floor, but the time table for that wasn't certain. He also was certain of all of his allies in hell. He wasn't certain if the Winchesters could pull it all off or if their fine feathered friends would pull the trigger too early. He wasn't certain just how much power Lucifer held having just climbed out of the pit. All of these uncertainties made the muscles in his vessel's neck seize up.

That, combined with the fact that Hell wasn't really that safe for him right now, was why he was currently topside and inspecting his surroundings in a rather meager master bath. The tiles were relatively clean and the tub was sizable, antique, and equipped with rusting claw feet. He bent down and shoved a rubber stopper in the drain. His muscles pulled at the action but he ignored them as he turned the hot water on as far as it would spin. It was cold at first, having sat in the pipes for most of the day, but soon steam began to rise from the old tub.  
Crowley looked for some sort of gel wash and finally found a mostly empty bottle that looked as though it had been forgotten long ago. He smelt of it, wrinkled his nose, and shrugged. The label said "Irish Water Fall" but it neither smelt Irish nor like a water fall. He shrugged and squeezed the remainder in the stream of hot water. He opened a door and walked into the master bed room. It was messy, but he still managed to find a bottle of whiskey and an old fashioned glass in the bed side table. He noticed the bed room door was opened to the hall as he walked by. He ducked his head out for only a second. He was alone. He noticed a travel sized record player sitting on a table in the hall.

He shut the water off and brought the record player, a handful of records, glass, and whiskey into the bath room. Crowley chuckled, the records read "Great Motown Hits" and it looked like there were three or four volumes here. He placed a record on the turn table and let the needle drop. The Mad Lad's "No Strings Attached" filled the room. He opened the bottle of whiskey and poured a little into the glass, magic-ing some ice cubes while he was at it. He took off his shoes and placed them in the corner of the room. His socks, tie, and belt followed. He swayed a little with the music as he drank the glass in a single gulp. He shivered slightly; he wasn't that fond of this particular brand, it was cheap. He refilled his glass and stripped. He looked his vessel over in the mirror. It clearly wasn't comparable to Brad Pitt or Hugh Grant but he still thought he looked pretty good. He touched the top of his head where his hair line was receding. He could easily change this, but he felt like it made him look "distinguished".

He dipped his big toe in the sudsy water to test the temperature. It agreed with him so he stepped in and sat down. He let the warm water rush over him and he sighed. He closed his eyes for the duration of Marvin Gaye's "Mercy Mercy Me" and basked in the relaxing water. He started to think about just how far he had come. He doesn't remember his early days in hell, time moves differently there. But it was, well, it was hell. They refer to things being "hell" for a reason. A reason he has experienced personally. He remembers his human life, but not anything like a personal memory. He remembers it almost like it was a book he had read years and years ago.

Crowley sighed; he had always done everything he could to forget those early centuries in hell. He tried pushing it from his mind, validating it as an equally important step in climbing the ladder, tried rewriting his memories, and taking it out on lower demons once he rose, but it always come back to him. He remembers his feelings of fear and denial. He remembers the smell of brimstone, blood, burning flesh, and feces. He shivered. Those were NOT pleasant smells. He thought about the numbers of demons that grew to prefer those smells to those of earth and shook his head. With a flick of his wrist he summoned several lit candles to rest on sink's counter. He sipped his glass and the scent of whiskey and lavender mingled in his nose.

"You Really Got A Hold On Me" by Percy Sledge came on the speakers. Crowley swirled bubbles with his foot. You know, he had really done well for himself. In his opinion, most demons were nothing more than stupid beasts. They were literally monsters. Creatures tearing and devouring each other in the caves of hell. Those demons rarely found their way out of hell. The demons that made it back to earth were more "civilized". Still, even though these were smarter than the beasts of hell, Crowley thought the majority of these demons were stupid too. They were like sheep, ready to follow someone they saw as being bigger than they were. Although, he decided, he really should give them more credit than that. The majority of humans were like that so at least they didn't slide too far backwards when they entered hell. Maybe that was what caused it, that humanity they might hold on to. The beasts lost theirs in an instant and other demons tended to forget. They reveled in their new title of "demon" once the knives are put away.

"TALKIN BOUT MY GURLLLL MY GURL!" Crowley knew he was the only one around and he couldn't resist singing along with the Temptations. To be honest, Crowley never really embraced the whole "demon" title. He didn't deny it by any means, but that really wasn't something that defined him. First and foremost he was a business man, an entrepreneur, an innovator. He would play the games he needed to, that's how he managed to become King of the Crossroads after all, but he didn't claim loyalty to Hell or what it stood for. That didn't mean that he kneeled to Heaven either, or to the humans. Most things weren't painted in black and white. He believed in good and evil, but he wasn't always so sure what the proper definitions were. Business, when done properly, was pure. There were no sides to take. You have something that someone else wants and vice versa. So, you make a deal, and you make good on your deal. Both parties keep their word and you get what you want.

The Temptations were followed by the Four Tops and "Are You Man Enough." Crowley filled the glass for what was probably the fifth or sixth time by now. Unfortunately, he had made some deals that got him into some trouble. He wasn't safe in hell anymore and he had to keep his head low when he's topside. That's the reason why he is in this drafty, run down, farmhouse right now. Crowley had several hideouts, most of which were in much better upkeep, but he felt the safest here. He felt like he could let his guard down here. Many of the times he would come here there wasn't a soul to be found so he would take the opportunity to walk the halls, inspecting knick naks and books. It was lonely and he felt funny about it. Maybe that was why he came so often. Maybe it was an attempt to make the house feel less lonely. Maybe it was an attempt to make himself feel less lonely.

The room went quiet except for the gentle hum of the record player's speakers. Crowley used his powers to flip the record over. "Georgia on My Mind" by Ray Charles broke the silence. Crowley sighed again and splashed water on his face trying to snap out of it. This song felt sad to him. He was "thinking" himself into a slump. He downed the remainder of the bottle of whiskey. He wished the house wasn't empty. He would never admit to being lonely, but he was afraid that he was. Was it so hard for someone to want to spend time with him? Maybe, when he climbs to the top, all of hell will bow to him. Maybe he could re-organize upper management and do things better. Maybe the other demons would love him. Many already fear and respect him, but they are all either his employees or lower demons and it certainly isn't admiration. He would give anything to not feel so alone when he is surrounded by millions of his employees. Even one person would be nice, just one person that could admire him and not feel lonely when he's there.

Crowley splashed himself again. He really needed to snap out of it. The record quieted between songs and he thought he heard a chair scrape the floor in the kitchen. He panicked for a moment, then grinned as he jumped out of the tub and let the water out. He wrapped a slightly damp towel around his waist, grabbed the empty bottle and glass, and headed for the stairs. He recognized three voices in the kitchen. He cleared his throat and walked into the room as though he owned the place.

"Hello Moose… Squirrel… Kenny Rogers…" Sam's jaw dropped and Dean nearly choked on his beer at the sight of the half naked man.

"What the hell do you think you're doing here you little horned bastard!?" Bobby yelled, turning red underneath his facial hair.

"Just came through to tell you you're out of whiskey upstairs. Really, if you are going to drink why not drink something a few steps above furniture polish? It also wouldn't kill you to have something besides bar soap or maybe a few votives in your bathroom…" Crowley set the bottle and glass down loudly on the kitchen table and quickly left the room to rush up the stairs.

"Wait," Dean said in his usual overcompensating voice as he tried to catch up, "You aren't going any were until you tell us about the next se-." Dean's words stopped as he noticed the towel had been draped over the banister. He took a deep breath and run up the stairs.

Wet Crowley sized foot prints lead out of the bathroom and music was playing behind the door. Dean threw the door open and glanced around the empty room.

"Figures," Dean huffed as Bobby and Sam came up behind him. The Temptation's "You Make Your Own Heaven And Hell Right Here On Earth" was playing on the record. Sam picked up one of the candles and smelt of it.

"Bobby," Sam awkwardly began, "is there something you want to share with us?"

"Were we interrupting something, Bobby?" Dean chuckled.

The older man glanced around the room then back to the brothers before shaking his head.

"No, there is nothing to share and nothing to interrupt! I was asleep down stairs all afternoon! I'm going down stairs to get a beer, but you two idjits aren't coming down until this place is straightened up…" Bobby mumbled something unintelligible as he shuffled out of the room, trying to hide his cherry read cheeks.

The boys could barely hold their laughter until the man was out of sight.


End file.
